Rich Furman
Whole
Marvel at mountain rain falling in the sun,
each large drop dancing off the wooden porch,
melding to the next, lost to the collective.
There is more than this:
sleep in the afternoon,
dog-worry thunder,
her sleeping face seen a thousand times.
White spotted skin secret like a monk too good for
wretched world. Secluded in hideaway vailed in
red dots brown off-gray orange patchwork.
We argue of their standing.
She says they are her skin, whole.
I say they are more.
Given to special ones;
those who say prayers passing by roadside death.
May 24, 2001
Sunburn
She dabs diaper-rash cream
on the maroon char of her clavicle.
I bath her in apple vinegar,
rinse off the pulsating ointment
designed for secret places.
Her logic? Anti-redness cream for redness.
I can almost pretend to understand.
She fears my committing follies to paper
without exoneration.
Let’s give her this. The phone from Denver
ushers barium news. Her brother’s feet
fail, legs dangle benumbed.
I read her Tate's The Lost Pilot,
it helps, but it doesn't,
time an earthy quicksand
in which we slowly sink.
July 11, 2003
Hand
Essential as a velvet Elvis clock
hanging on a cockeyed cork-board wall
in Council Bluffs, Iowa?
But, what are these pictures in hand?
Apparitions. Only sweat fissures
like dangerous city streets,
dead ends abstract signs,
a thin white band of gold.
The two social workers interview
a large Black teen
in a trendy tea house.
I sip a fine sencha pretend not to listen
while straining to hear,
cheating life,
stealing voices faces
like these lines on my hands
that fade into themselves,
as the fist balls
and the boom is bungled,
the silent lips,
life is a read-through
but not to the mad.
June 6, 2003
Pantoum In A Loveland Bar
White Buffalos and man-hating songs
her rear brushes grasping forearm
cannibals, liquid dreams
and god before time.
Her rear brushes grasping forearm
reminders of what? Sin? Love? The space in between
and god before time,
sapphires, Bombay and hope.
Reminders of what? Sin? Love? The space in between
the shrill defects.
sapphires, Bombay and hope
grasping for something new.
The shrill defects
cannibals, liquid dreams
grasping for something new
White Buffalos and man-hating songs.
June 20, 2003
Cancer
The shades are drawn by choice,
snow-sealed by the madness of time,
of your death.
Four days until they slice your chest,
a cherry pie or deep ditch by lonely road,
or thin slices of sandwich meat.
They will pick at you uncaring vultures;
devour the parts they save praising their success
whatever the outcome,
after they will drink dry Chardonnay.
Filtered cancer daydreams a ridiculous bar
high on coffee beer and your end soon coming,
you perform now maybe your final winks,
the last of your dreams.
There is all the beer I can drink,
but precious little time.
St. Patty’s Day, 1992
Rich Furman , PhD, is an assistant professor in the School of Social Work at University of Nebraska-Omaha. His poetry has been published in Hawaii Review, The Evergreen Review, Black Bear Review, Red Rock Review, Sierra Nevada Review, Penn Review, Free Lunch, Colere, Pearl, The Journal of Poetry Therapy, Impetus, Poetry Motel and many others. He has preformed his work throughout the United States, as well as in Nicaragua, Mexico, and Guatemala. His work has been described as neither street nor beat nor meat nor academic, but an emotionally evocative mix of styles that can be brutally imagistic or powerfully terse. His scholarly writing is concerned with social work ethics, international social work, friendship, social work theory, social work practice and the uses of poetry in social work and social research. He has published a workbook on group practice and dozens of articles. He teaches clinical social work in the MSW program. Mostly, he just likes to live as fully as possibly and mess with the poem. He welcomes feedback, comments and dialogue about his work. Snorting Dog Press published two of his chapbooks, of only average intent, 2002 and Gleaming and Faded, 2003. He also has an e-book on the Internet Poet's Cooperative website. Legitimate Press will be releasing a CD of his and James L. Smith's poetry. He is currently seeking a publisher for three full length manuscripts. RFurman@mail.unomaha.edu
